That’s why the distress call from Mrs. Randhurst was, well, so distressing.
Rock Island was a bad place. It even had an aura about it. An evil vibe. And something shady was definitely going on there.
He’d tried to warn them, to get them to camp elsewhere. But they’d been insistent.
Now he was forced to head back there. Something he didn’t relish at all.
“Mama told me not to become a sailor, Goldie.”
Goldie was asleep in his tank. Or her tank. Prendick didn’t know if it was a boy fish or a girl fish. Actually, he didn’t know if Goldie actually slept, either. She certainly didn’t close her eyes and start snoring. But sometimes she’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, not even moving when he fed her, and Prendick assumed she (or he) was sleeping.
He glanced from the tank to the locked cabinet next to it. A gun cabinet, containing two revolvers and a rifle. Prendick checked the GPS and turned the wheel, silently praying he wouldn’t have to use them.
Tom didn’t think he could possibly be more frightened, and then the giant kissed him.
His first reaction was shock. Not only was the act totally unexpected, but it was so frickin’ gross, so frickin’ sick, that Tom didn’t know what the hell to do.
The obvious answer—push the freak away—scared Tom even more. This guy was so big and scary that rejecting him didn’t seem like an option.
So Tom closed his eyes as the psycho explored his mouth with his tongue, nibbling on his lips with those horrible needle teeth and making an awful, moaning sound in his throat.
Worst of all, this was technically Tom’s first French kiss. Yuck.
It was almost as bad as realizing he’d eaten Meadow.
Tom endured it, staying stock-still, praying for it to end. Eventually it did, and this crazy Lester person looked down at Tom and patted him on the head.
“Mmm,” Lester said. “Tom tastes yummy.”
Lester moved in closer, like he was going for another kiss. Tom leaned away and quickly said, “Uh, are you the one that cooked my buddy?”
The giant shook his head. “Lester doesn’t cook people. He likes to eat his raw.”
That was enough for Tom. He shoved Lester as hard as he could, then broke the land-speed record for sixteen-year-old boys and ran the hell out of there. It was too dark to see, and the trees were everywhere, so he stuck his hands out ahead of him to avoid busting open his head. When he did finally hit the tree, he was spared a concussion, but it hyper-extended his pinky, which hurt worse than just about anything Tom ever felt before.
He was cradling his injured finger, wondering how to get it to stop throbbing, when someone grabbed his shirt from behind.
“Tom shouldn’t have run from Lester,” the giant whispered in his ear. “Now Lester is taking Tom back to his playroom.”
“My finger,” Tom said, whining. “I think I broke my finger.”
Lester grabbed both of Tom’s wrists, encircling them like handcuffs. He raised them to his lips, and then—oh god no—he put the jutting pinky into his mouth.
Tom felt like throwing up again. Lester swished the finger back and forth in his mouth, causing such incredible waves of pain that it made the darkness come alive with orange and blue flashes. Tom began to beg, and when that didn’t stop the manipulation he fell to his knees and alternated between crying and screaming. There was no possible way the pain could get any worse.
Then the biting began.
General Alton Tope slugged down his fourth shot of scotch. It was a single malt, but a young one, and the alcohol burned his throat. The private who brought him the liquor needed a lesson in the selection of fine spirits, but he was grateful to the lad nonetheless.
He glanced at the OSST monitor again, frowning at the new population count.
Twenty-six.
Jesus, they’re dropping like flies.
General Tope understood the chain of command. He lived by it. Orders were orders, and the soonest he could get to Rock Island was tomorrow. There was no leeway.
He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.
Tyrone hurried through the woods alongside Cindy, three steps behind Sara. His palms were slathered in burn cream, which contained a topical anesthetic. It didn’t really kill the pain, just sort of turned some of the throbbing into tingling. He could manage.
Cindy had a finger stuck in his belt loop, which was a poor substitute for holding hands. But the persistent tug made him feel closer, connected. After they’d dressed, Cindy had been the one to apply the burn cream. It hurt, and the ointment smelled foul, but her tenderness and dedication touched Tyrone. For a moment, he actually felt like a kid again, way back when safety was taken for granted, and love was given freely, and life had possibilities.
“Do you think we’ll get out of here?” Cindy had asked, not meeting his eyes.
“We will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I won’ let nuthin’ happen to you.”
Then she looked at him and all at once Tyrone felt nervous. Because he knew what he wanted to do, and the risks involved. Funny, there they were, surrounded by cannibals, and the thing that scared him most at that moment was leaning in for a kiss and being rejected.
But he did lean in. Cindy’s eyes got wide, then closed, and his lips lightly touched hers.
For ten beautiful seconds, all was right with the world.
Now they were trekking through the forest, heading for shore. That kiss had felt so right, but it had raised the stakes. Tyrone had spent so long just caring about himself, he’d forgotten all the pressure that came with caring about someone else. He couldn’t let anything happen to Cindy. Not now. He’d die first.
Sara got slightly ahead of them, even while limping, so Tyrone picked up the pace. She kept the light cupped in her hand, only flashing the beam occasionally to check the compass.
Tyrone always liked Sara. She was one of those people who actually wanted to help. She didn’t pretend to understand all the things the kids at the Center were going through. She didn’t make the mistake most adults did, trying to relate. Unless you were bangin’ and jackin’ and scoring drugs and hootchie mamas and livin’ day by day, how the hell were you supposed to know what the thug life was like? But Sara never fronted like that. She just showed the kids how they could change their lives if they tried, and that was cool.
But Tyrone hadn’t known how strong Sara actually was. He watched when she broke that guy’s neck. That was some tough as hell shit. Tyrone felt better knowing she had his back.
Sara stopped again. When she shined the light on the compass, Tyrone saw a face behind her. A crazed, snarling, charred and bloody face, the long hair and beard half-melted away, the burned lips and swollen to twice their size.
The cutlery man.
He lunged at Sara, his knife and fork raised. Tyrone shot forward, pulling Cindy off her feet, straight-arming the cannibal in the shoulder. The shock of the impact made Tyrone stagger back, and it knocked the cutlery man sideways. Then the pain came, starting off slow like a distant train, speeding in to become huge and loud and unstoppable.
Tyrone fell to his knees, staring at his right hand. The skin on his palm, already blistered and loose, had sloughed off.
A roar, almost like an animal, drew Tyrone’s attention upward, and he watched the cutlery man’s attack, the knife slicing down through the air, a perfect angle to bury itself into his neck.